It's Ladies Night and The Winchesters Brothers Are
by ronny-of-yore
Summary: The words 'Dean Winchester' and 'Strip Club' are usually synonymous with the word fun. Not this time.  Unfortunately, especially not for his brother Sam. It's Ladies Night and the Winchester brothers are not alright.


It's Ladies Night and The Winchester Brothers Are Not Alright

"Whoa, whoa," a tattooed, mountain of a man says — hands out, palms up — stopping the movement of two suited men in an open doorway. "Only guys coming in here work here. Don't know your names or your faces. Beat it."

"Official business," the short-haired male studiously replies, producing an F.B.I badge from an inner pocket. Next to him, his taller partner does the same.

After a careful perusal of both ID's, Terrance, Cocktails' main bouncer, steps aside with a grunted, "Chad at the bar can you get the boss."

"Thank you … Rodney," Sam Winchester says, reading the barrel-chested man's nametag as they passed by.

The inside of the club is slightly humid, the air reeking of cheap alcohol and stagnant cigarette smoke. The walls are covered in floor-length mirrors that reflect the ceiling's sparkling mirror ball. Red, vinyl, U-shaped booths litter the polished, wooden floor with circular, silver tables nestled in their middle. In the center of the room, extending from the far wall is a black, marble stage that has a chromed-out pole at its end. To put it bluntly, it looks like any other strip club they had come cross in the past. However, it does have one _major_ difference.

"This place gives me the creeps," Dean hisses out of the side of his mouth.

His eyes keep bouncing between skimpy, spandex clad waiters — all male, all the time. Keeping his gaze chest level is a hard chore to handle since each and every one of the men are sporting disturbingly shaped g-strings and, well, nothing else.

"Oh, come _on!_" Dean huffs as a deeply tanned, long-haired brunette walks by with an elephant's snout dangling between his muscled legs.

"Pull it together," Sam hisses back. He seriously doubts real F.B.I Agents would let their professional veneer crumble so easily. (After all, the one's they'd come across never even seemed to smile.)

Going back to ignoring Dean, Sam manages to catch the eye of the guy behind the white-lighted, glass bar. When he does, he's thankful as hell to find that the chin-length blonde with the cleanly trimmed goatee is fully clothed. Sam's not homophobic by any means, but still. He feels it makes things a hell of a lot easier when his gaze isn't trying to shock and awe him by trying to dip well below the man's waistline.

"_You_ pull it together," Dean hisses back, feeling sorely out of his comfort zone. "Shit, Sam. I think I'm seriously scarred for life here!"

Trying not to roll his eyes at his brother's outburst and only relatively feeling the same, Sam lays a hand on the counter. Producing a badge, he greets with a jut of his chin, "I'm Detective Murray. This is Detective Harris. Mind pointing us in the direction of your boss?"

Chad, the bartender, puts down the glass and rag he has in his hands. After closely squinting at their badges, he replies with a relieved sigh, "So glad to see you guys. Thought I was gonna lose my job and all with what's been going on. Boss is down the hall there and to the left. You'll see the nameplate. Just catch the dude offing our dancers. Man, if any more kick the bucket, boss might be forced to close and I'll be back out on the street. Not too many places hire ex-cons, you know." Quickly, he adds as the two agents head toward the aforementioned hall, "I was acquitted, though, I'll have you know! I'm on the straight and narrow now! Honest!"

Sam pulls a face as they round the corner, "Talker, that one."

"Yeah, well," Dean sarcastically replies, "if I was him, I wouldn't go around announcing my past mistakes to cops like that. Know what I'm saying?"

What's brought Sam and Dean to Madison, Wisconsin is the death of three men who'd been employed at the Cocktails lounge. Apparently, over the short span of three weeks, each man had died right after the job, because each one of their bodies had been found in the big, green dumpster behind the building, while still sporting their work clothes of choice. That in and of itself hadn't been what had caught their eye. It was the details in the newspaper about the actual way they had died that screamed freaky monster attack. Each victim's body had been sucked completely dry of the marrow in his bones.

After a rather enlightening visit to the coroner's office, the Winchester brothers have come to know exactly what they're looking for. A Rodendun. Its true form is something akin to a cross between an anteater and a ghoul. It's snout-like mouth has two thin needle-tipped fangs. The longer one pierces the flesh of its target and further into its bones, sucking out the needed sustenance, while the shorter one secretes paralyzing venom into the bloodstream to numb their kill. In a nutshell, its a slow and very painful death. The hardest part of finding a damn Rodendun is that, like a ghoul, the fucker can take on the form of anyone they'd done in. Fortunately, though, once they begin to actually feed, they usually stick around the same killing grounds until their favorite source of food runs dry.

Coming to the door marked _Manager_, Dean wraps his knuckles on the piece of wood three times, hard.

The moment the door opens, Sam and Dean find themselves staring down at a 3-foot 4-inch tall, older woman.

"You the new dancer I'm supposed to be hiring?" she grouses, voice like sandpaper around the cigar she has clamped between her yellow-stained teeth. The crotchety lady also has one of those severe lazy eyes too, making it extremely difficult for either Sam and Dean to know exactly which one of them she's actually speaking to.

Needless to say, the brothers are flabbergasted; Dean had even opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

"Well, whatever," Darla, Cocktails' manager, says as she brushes past their tall, suited legs. "No need for introductions and the paperwork can come later. You're hired. Hell, your boyfriend too. Might as well kill two birds with one stone." Stopping to look back at the two men just standing there catching flies, she grouchily urges, "Well, come on now! I ain't got all day!"

"Lady, what the he—? Ow!" Dean yelps from the sudden elbow shoved in his side.

Sam immediately begins talking over him while whipping out his fake badge. "I'm sorry, you must have us confused. I'm Detective Murray. This is Detective Harris. We're here about the recent deaths of three of your dancers."

The height-challenged woman has the nerve to look unapologetic. "Oh, well, in that case. Follow me." At this, she stops, turns back, and pauses to consider the two men with a flippant look, "You can walk and talk at the same time, can't you?"

Sam and Dean exchange dubious expressions as Darla snorts to herself before quickly leaving them in the dust of the empty hall.

**[xx]**

Apparently, the woman's big hurry had been to grab another tall glass of Vanilla Vodka and Coke from the ex-con bartender named Chad. Drinking on the job, she sits in the center round booth with Sam and Dean across from her.

"Look, let me just cut to the chase here," she croaks, after a deep sip and appreciative hiss of her potent drink. "I understand that you're in the middle of an investigation. I've seen my fair share of cop shows. I know how this works. I also know that the best way to catch this creep is if one of you goes undercover. Look, all I'm saying is that I'm missing three dancers here and you two fell into my lap. Now if one of you ponies up and gets your ass up on that stage tonight, while the other one waits tables," —A shrug and a long pull on a cigar— "Who knows. Maybe you'll be catching a criminal and helping me make a buck to boot. I think we can call it even."

"Woman, you gotta be out of your frigging mi—! Ow!" Once again, Dean's shut up by Sam's elbow saying 'hello' to the tender spot in his side.

The only reason Dean doesn't stomp and twist on his little brother's clown-sized shoe is because — being the negotiator between the two — Sam already has his patented understanding yet highly concerned face in full effect. Leaning back, yet still highly disgruntled, Dean just lets Sam go about getting the both of them off the hook the old bat currently has them dangling from. No way is he serving drinks in nothing but some fucked up version of what this woman sees as underwear. Oh, no. He sure as hell isn't about to go prancing around on some stage! Dean Winchester doesn't abide objectification. Never has. Never will.

"Mrs. Grubber," Sam begins in a well-practiced patient tone.

"It's Darla," the woman brusquely interrypts. "I ain't been called Mrs. Grubber since Henry ran off with one of the dancers and left me with this shit hole of a place and knee-high in debt."

"O-k." Sam starts again, after a nod of his head with his bottom lip covering his top. "Darla, it's a deal. Agent Harris will be more than willing to cover the stage while I—"

"Oh, hell no he wo—! Ow!" Dean exclaims — completely breaking cover — from Sam's not-so-hidden kidney assault.

However, Cocktails' pint-sized manager doesn't seem to catch on to their antics – either that or she doesn't really care. Darla just slides out of the booth, taking her drink with her. After all, she has other business to attend to.

"I'll just let you two mull over the minor details," she vaguely says over a shoulder as she heads back to the bar to get a quick refill. "Besides," she calls, still turned away, with a grin now heard clear in her deep voice, "I've gotta go tell Lex he's got a new rookie to train."

The moment the woman's out of earshot, Dean's on Sam like holy water on a demon. "Dude, what the _fuck_? How could you sell out your own flesh and blood like that? Seriously, Sam, what the hell were you thinking?"

Sam sighs. He knew this conversation was coming the moment he decided to take the woman up on her offer, but he has a plan. Dean just needs to hear him out.

"Look, Dean," Sam says, further explaining with slow, patient words. "If you think about it, she's right. If we're gonna figure out what's going on here, we're gonna have to be here during the entire time the dancers are actually doing their thing. And no way are two suits going to just blend into the background. You heard the bouncer. The only guys coming in here work here. Way I see it, this way we can have eyes on the backstage area and on the floor."

Not able to turn a blind eye to Sam's appropriate reasoning, Dean nods, but that by no means says that he's happy with his brother's decision.

"Alright, well, you might have a point there," Dean unwillingly grates. "But that still doesn't explain why your lucky ass will be down here serving drinks while my almost naked ass will be up there shaking my groove thing for everyone and their mother to see! I mean, what the hell? Aren't you supposed to be the chiseled Adonis from Mount Olympus now that all Robo-you did was work out instead of sleep for a whole frigging year? Hello, even with being nine shades of awesome, I'm still not down with being pawed at like some—some greased up pole-dancer!"

Sam tries, he really does, but he can't help the grin that completely breaks through. "You _are_ a greased up pole-dancer, Dean. Or at least you will b— Ow!"

"Totally deserved that shit!" Dean snarls, after shoving his fist into Sam's bicep, hard.

"Ok, ok. But, come on, man, just hear me out here," Sam placates. Being brothers, when all else fails, Sam knows exactly how to appeal to Dean's sensible side — stroke his ego. "I just thought that, you know, since you have the better dance skills… Hey, you do a mean Michael Jackson impersonation."

Dean abruptly smacks the back of his brother's shaggy head with a hissed, "We were kids, Sam!" Calming down, he adds with an agitated tug of his tie, "But, ok, yeah, I can so do the moonwalk like nobody's business." Next looking over to his brother with a cocky grin, Dean snorts, "You can't quit tripping over your own damn feet to even dance with a chick."

Sam's face falls into a blank stare as he deadpans, "I was thirteen, Dean, and it was a middle school dance. I still don't understand why you even had to go with u—" He quickly shakes off the bad memory of falling all over himself in front of the fairer sex with his older brother trying to nonchalantly give him pointers from the gym's bleachers. "Whatever, the point is you're still the better dance. So, yeah, it's gotta be you up there, Dean."

Anger greatly subsided, Dean grumbles out a, "Alright, but that doesn't mean I have to like it." What could he say? He so totally knew how to cut a rug.

"Never said you had to," Sam replies, feeling like he still has supremely awesome big brother handling skills if he does say so himself.

[xx]

"Another Sex On The Beach over here, Honey!"

"And don't forget my Cranberry and Vodka, Sweet-cheeks!"

Sam's face is skewed from the two stinging slaps to the rear he had just received from the two thirty and (probably) forty-something Cougars he had just walked by.

"I'll get right on that," he replies through clenched teeth, while unclenching his other set of — completely bare — cheeks. Truthfully, Sam is entirely rethinking his decision to have Dean be the pole-dancer on this one. After all, the pink neon sign, above the door, reads something to the effect of not groping the dancers. Unfortunately, for Sam, wearing nothing but a bowtie and a frigging brown and black G-string of a monkey eating a banana, it doesn't say a damn thing about not touching the waiters. Seriously, what the hell had he been thinking?

Thankfully, Sam makes it back to the bar relatively unscathed. Ok, so he'd had to endure three more slaps to the rump and one drunk woman coming back from the bathroom, who'd run her hands all over his oiled chest and stomach — and unabashedly grabbed his ass — after he'd helpfully caught her from falling on her face.

"Battle scars, man," Chuck, the bartender, tells Sam as he goes to fill up the new orders. "You gotta totally treat each violation like battle scars. You know, crap that you can brag about later 'cause, I don't know if anybody told you or not, but you might just win a pretty penny or two around here if your war story comes out on top at the end of the night." —A chuckle— "Man, once, I even had this drunk-ass old lady hop up on the bar, spread her legs, and tell me 'Fill her up, son!'" —A nostalgic shake of the head— "Best damn fifty bucks I ever won."

Sam stares wide-eyed, not understanding in the slightest how any guy could actually be proud of something like that.

Fortunately — or maybe not — Cocktails' head waiter appears at his side then. Looking up, Sam nods a manly greeting to his fellow half-naked co-worker. "Daniel."

"Lawrence," the dark-haired male replies in turn. He too wears a bowtie, but his g-string is that of a white, comical looking, long-necked rhino. As the man turns around to scan the crowd, Sam can't quite keep his eyes from looking down and noticing the bit of red on the left side of his tanned cheek. Sam's brows raise as he's left wondering just how a lipsticked-mouth had gotten down there of all places.

Turning back around, Daniel catches him looking. He just shrugs. "Mrs. Dellworth. She's a regular and a big tipper."

"Hey, I know her husband!" Chad eagerly supplies, easily breaking into the conversation. "He works down at the A-B-C store around the corner, right? What's his name? Bob?"

Daniel produces a wide grin and nods. "Yeah. Poor guy's always bitching to me about being broke whenever I go in there for the weekly liquor run."

At that, with a laugh, Chuck lifts a platter of white cups filled with several different colors of jelly from under the bar. (The cups themselves remind Sam of the tiny one's dentists are known to use to hold mouthwash in.)

Catching Sam's eye, Daniel asks with a grin, "Does the rookie think he's up to Jell-O shots tonight? 'Cause, trust me, if you are, I'll be more than happy to push it right off into your capable hands."

However, Sam's hands immediately come up, warding off any attempts at all at having anything to do with the seedy chore. "Oh, no. You can keep that job to yourself, thanks."

Sam had seen how the earlier platter of Jell-O shots had worked. He seriously doesn't think he's up to holding a cup in his mouth while some drunk female sloppily sucks out the jelly. There's a line and Sam is drawing it.

Daniel just grins and shakes his head. "Alright, well, if you see Jake, tell him it's his turn to do the belly shots. Oh, and tell him that I said don't forget the whip cream this time." Rolling his eyes, he grumbles, "Customers literally eat that crap up."

Shaking his head and feeling downright sorry for himself, Sam starts putting the needed drinks from the counter onto his own platter.

But the sudden silence of music and the darkening of the lights make him feel so much better about his current situation. _So much better_.

"Hey, looks like _Fabio's_ finally up," Chuck informes. With an amused grin and a towel in hand wiping up the condensation on the bar, he adds highly amused, "This should be good."

Looking toward the lit-up stage with a shit-eating grin of his own, Sam agrees. "Oh yeah."

Seriously, better Dean than him.

As smoke billows on the lit-up stage, the sound of blowing wind follows a strummed melody of chords from an acoustic guitar. Still smiling wide, Sam shakes his head at the start of the Bon Jovi song that he and Dean had once sung together in the Impala so many years ago.

As the words, "It's all the same. Only the names have changed," spill out of the mounted speakers on the wall, Dean appears and Sam can't help covering his mouth to keep down the silent laughter bubbling up in his chest. Dean's wearing a black cowboy hat tilted dangerously over his eyes and a brown, worn looking leather coat that looks like it belongs in one of those old Spaghetti Westerns they'd come across as kids. (Or, you know, like that one coat he still not-so-secretly keeps in the trunk from going back in time and looking for that Phoenix.)

The catcalls and whistles are in full effect as Dean prowls around the outer rim of the stage with a laid back gait and his normal bow-legged stance. Coming back to the middle of the platform, Dean even managed to do a twirl around the pole once or twice during the remainder of the chorus. But the crowd goes completely frigging wild — forcing Sam to cover his ears — once good old Bon Jovi sings out, "Oh, and I ride!" It has less to do with the hardcore kickoff of the beat and more to do with Dean suddenly throwing away the trenchcoat to reveal … black, vinyl, ass-less chaps, a matching black vest, and a g-string in the shape of a horse's face with the long dangly sling its pink, panted tongue.

Finding his eyes glued to his brother's comically covered crotch, as Dean gyrates on stage, Sam slaps a hand to his face. Jesus Christ, really, the shit they have to do to save people's lives.

Speaking of, casting a glance around the smoke-filled room, Sam really can't see any of these vultures sucking the marrow from the bones of scantily clad men. Sucking other parts of them, yes, but not their bones... Well, at least not the bones between their—

Sam viciously shakes his head like a wet dog throwing off water. Seriously, the taint in this place is starting to do weird ass things to his brain. Sam doesn't like it. Not one bit. After sucking in and letting out a breath, he pushes away from the bar, forcing himself to get back to handing out the various glasses of alcohol mixed with holy water. (Dean had managed to slip some blessed H20 into each one of the booze taps, under the bar, while good ol' Chuck had gone off for a lunch break earlier in the day.)

And if that isn't enough to root out their monster, Sam's made a habit of bumping the silver bracelet he's wearing against the skin of each loaded lady he comes across. So far, nobody has shown any signs of being anything more than painted-up birds of prey with way too many hormones and too little horizontal action in the bedroom. Bending over to put down two drinks in front of two lovely ladies his own age, he jolts from the sudden feel of two different sets of hands sensually rubbing along the back of his thighs. (Looking behind him, two grandmas are busy pawing at his legs and licking their lips while steadily ogling his ass.)

_Please, God, let something sprout fangs and go for my jugular soon, _he internally groans as he tries to right himself with dignity — pride nowhere to be found.

[xx]

Lips pursed and feeling four kinds of badass, Dean Winchester — stage-named Fabio — shrugs out of his shiny, black vest to twirl it around in the air above his head. Legs spread in a macho stance, hips swirling to the music, he lets it fly to land somewhere in the darkened most parts of the crowd. He earns high-pitched squeals of glee from his actions and a small fight breaks out to determine the vest's winner. Even so, that's nothing.

Head nodding to the oh-so-familiar beat, Dean gives a feral flash of teeth, a waggle of brows, and a deadly wink, before bending down and ripping his make-shift pants completely from his shiny, oil-slicked body. Needless to say, these too go flying out to the hormonal masses and more than one woman loudly swoones in the crowd. (Another fight also breaks out for the tossed away bit of costume. Needless to say, lots of drink throwing and hair-pulling commences.)

Dean, however, has already moved on. He's busy mouthing an, "Oh yeah," with his thumb and pointer finger up like he's holding an imaginary gun. The drunk, old grandma he _shoots_ stiffens up and clutches at her heart with a pruned hand. But then she's just a shivering in her seat, sending back a naugthty-naughty leer at the wide, cocky grin Dean's giving her in return.

Yeah, Dean had no idea being objectified could feel this damn good. It feels so damn good in fact that he apparently doesn't mind swishing his hips around the lip of the stage, while letting the crowded, screaming ladies stick dollar bills in the sides of his barely-there underwear and the thin strips of leather he has tied around the top halves of his thighs. Really, Dean doesn't know why he'd thrown up in that trashcan before setting foot on stage earlier. This is… This is fun!

[xx]

Sam shakes his head at his pole-dancer of a brother, who's looking right at home up there on that stage with every passing minute. It's embarrassing! It's ridiculous! It's—

Ok, it's funny as hell. Then something inside him says — sounding suspiciously like his brother, "Dude, seriously, did you expect anything less?"

Telling the unwanted, smug voice to get the hell out of his head, Sam makes his umpteenth visit to the bar with an empty platter in one hand and a lipstick stain on his forehead. (Good god, he hadn't even met Mrs. Dellworth yet.)

Unfortunately — or fortunately, if one looked at it another way — Sam never actually made it to the bar. In the darkened part of the club, he runs into something and whatever it is, it starts spitting and hissing.

"Oh, shi—!" Sam starts but cuts himself off as the little bastard takes off toward the stage. (Obviously someone drank a little too much holy water and bumped into his bracelet.) "Dean!" Sam shouts above the music, hoping his brother hears him in time. "Dean! The monster! It's coming your way!"

Thankfully, the music had whined down and Dean was just been in the middle of swaggering to the back of the stage — wads of cash overflowing from certain places — when his trained ear picked up the desperate call. Turning around, his hawk-like eyes zeros in on their target's movement even under the glare of the revolving lights. Like a stage diver at a Metallica concert, Dean charges and then flies off the end of the platform. Tables and chairs are quickly vacated in the immediate hot zone as a group of frightened women scatter with surprised shrieks.

Sam makes it to his struggling brother right as someone yells, "Oh my god! What is he doing to Darla!"

Looking down, Sam notices that Dean had indeed tackled their current employer. Only, her face is bubbling like something nasty lives underneath the wrinkly layers of her skin. On closer inspection, Sam also notices that Dean has something in his hands. Well, in the hand that's currently stabbing something into the back of the thing's head. Its a tiny, little, silver-bladed dagger no bigger than the length of his middle finger. (It's the one Dean usually keeps in the glove compartment of the Impala. The one usually used for opening mail or ripping into the tops of chip bags that neither one of them can open.)

Ok, Sam totally does _not_ want to ask his crafty brother exactly where _that_ had just been pulled out of. Seriously, some things are just too much information.

Instead, he starts trying to reassure the crowd as the thing under a nearly naked Dean begins to ooze green puss and sickly deflate.

"It's all just part of the show, ladies! No need to get yourselves worked up. The cowboy here just roped himself an alien—monster—thing. Right guys?" At this, Sam cuts the other bewildered waiter's, around them, sharp looks to get them to start agreeing. And thankfully they're too confused to do anything but go along with his charade.

"Yeah."

"Oh, right."

"Uh-huh, all part of the show."

Pulling back from the thing steadily dissolving beneath him, Dean pulls a disgusted face with his hands flinging green goo from his chest. "Son-of-a-bitch! Why's it always me getting the gross bleh all over him?"

Sam doesn't point out the fact that he had once gotten spleen juice in the face from a dead corpse in a certain morgue. Instead, he says to his waiter friends, "Uh, I think somebody better get to cleaning this up, before the next act starts up, don't you?"

All men concerned do an immediate turn to each other in a, "Not it," sort of way. The last guy too slow on the uptake lets out a highly peeved, "Aw, man!" before trudging off to get a shovel, some trash bags and a mop.

Even before things start going back to normal around them, Sam hisses to his slime-coated brother, "I think this is finally our queue to leave.

After flicking what looks to be a chunk of an ear from his stomach and shivering, Dean raises a brow in question. "You think?"

Yep, to Dean, its definitely time to shag ass. Besides, he's now completely overdue for a shower. But he has to admit, while ninja'ing his way behind Sam for the door, that it had been kind of fun while it lasted. Sadly, Sam doesn't seem to agree as the frigid winter air makes them shiver in their fucked up versions of skivvies. Trudging through the snow toward the parked Impala and freezing his balls off, Sam chatteres out, "It's the middle of winter and we're heading back to our motel in nothing but our underwear. I think it's safe to say that we've hit an all new level of low here."

And no matter the fun he had during the night, Dean completely feels he has to agree. "Yeah, my horse's tongue totally just rolled back up into his mouth."

_~Fin_


End file.
